


The True Story Of Our Nation’s Soon-To-Be Leader, and the Popular Hairstyle of the 80s

by 42purplerainbows



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Other, This is a crack fic, also fairly liberal, donald trump - Freeform, i posted this earlier but i took it down, so if it seems familiar that's why, trumullet, vaguely political, written pre-inauguration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 20:49:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9785753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/42purplerainbows/pseuds/42purplerainbows
Summary: Donald Trump got a mullet. He enjoys his mullet very much, and learns how to deal with it.





	1. Chapter 1

“Stop immediately. I need to post a picture of these top secret nuclear briefs that only 10 people know about on my Twitter. It is something that needs to be considered bigly.” Donald Trump stated, as his hairstylist was cutting his hair, for his weekly trim.

“Lo siento señor,” said his barber, who coincidentally was a Mexican. “Tiene un mójol ahora. Los mójoles son malos.”

“English you idiot,” Trump stated, because he couldn’t speak Spanish, despite living in the United States, where Spanish was the second most commonly spoken language.

“I was just saying that you have a mullet now. I was wondering if you really wanted to keep it,” said the barber.

“It makes me look like someone who can build a wall. A yuuuuuge wall.” Trump replied, obviously deciding to keep his mullet.

“This should be fun,” the barber muttered under his breath, clearly having done this on purpose. He knew Trump wouldn’t realize that it wasn’t the same barber as it had been for the past two years, knowing that Trump didn’t believe in equality, and saw all those who did tasks that he viewed as “menial labor” though in reality those people were likely the most important for higher society to function. It was rather like a series of nested systems. For the large, overarching system to work, the smaller, more simple ones all had to work, and they had to work well, making them some of the most important pieces.

Trump walked out of the hair salon and towards the Pentagon, a place in which he had somehow gotten clearance to go, despite the fact that he was a bumbling idiot with no clue how to run a country. He glanced at himself in the shiny windows of a grocery store, while passing by. He felt complete. His hair, while not having completely grown out in the back, looked stunning to him.

“My hair is beautiful. This will definitely make me more appealing to the voters. It will prove that they did the right thing by not voting for Crooked Hillary,” Trump said out loud, because he had no filter. It wasn’t a surprising thing to find out, especially considering all the tweets he had sent out during his presidential campaign.

A passing college student, in the Washington D.C. area, an area known for its overwhelming liberal population, gazed upon Trump with disgust in her eyes. After the horrible comments Trump had made, the young woman was shocked that a man as disgusting as him could be elected. Even though D.C. wasn’t technically a state, it still got votes in the electoral college, three of them, to be precise. Washington D.C. had voted liberally for the past many years, causing quite a commotion at times when a certain President-Elect walked around in the streets. People would holler at him, telling him to fix himself and his policies.

Trump walked in to the Pentagon where nothing seemed out of the ordinary to him. Everyone else could tell that people were staring at him. It was all due to his little hair problem. You see, Trump had the beginnings of a mullet. Mullets themselves are bad enough, however when it’s not even a full mullet, people start to stare even more.

“I’m sorry Mr. Trump, but you haven’t attended the last few briefings,” said a minor character, irrelevant to the plot.

“I don’t need to attend any briefings. Briefings are for losers,” Trump replied childishly.

“But sir, you have to lead this nation, you need to know what’s going on,” the irrelevant person answered.

“Listen. I’m going to build a wall. A yuuuuge wall, and I’m going to make Mexico pay for it,” Trump said, restating one of his many old lines of dialogue. He honestly needed a little more variety. Trump felt confident about his statements. He didn’t even feel like using the crutch of Putin’s support. Donald felt like he was finally Donald Trump, not just Trump, and not just Donald, but Donald Trump. His full name, he felt completed.

The pieces snapped into place. It wasn’t fully, but it was the best Donald Trump had ever felt. Donald had decided it was time to make something legendary happen. He picked up the phone, and answered Taiwan.

There were many things wrong with doing that. If Trump had had any knowledge on what Taiwan meant to China and US-China relations, he most definitely would not have answered that call. Trump essentially destroyed what was years of carefully maintained diplomatic relationships in the span of 10 minutes. That scenario could have terrible repercussions, economic or otherwise.

Trump was terribly distracted all throughout the meeting however. His hair simply kept distracting him. His new haircut was something he found to be beautiful. Almost more beautiful than women, or money in fact. He felt it was the best decision he had made since figuring out how to evade tax, and actually implement it.

Trump ran his fingers through his hair. The hair in the front had been cut down, making it appear a lot more businesslike than previously. The back of his head was an issue. Trump couldn’t seem to take his disproportionately sized hands out of the back of his hair. He didn’t have any impulse control, so there was that, but also, Trump felt good while running his fingers through his hair.

It wasn’t a simple, stress-relief type of good however. It was the carnal pleasure of it that didn’t allow Trump to remove his tiny fingers from his hair.


	2. Chapter 2

Trump strode over to his bedroom, somewhere that he felt he could be alone in peace. He lifted up his personal cellphone, a phone that he only used on rare occasions, to call his family or his advisors. Kellyanne’s number was the least dialed, since he rarely consulted her before doing anything. Putin, his favorite leader was the most dialed number.

“Hello, Mr. Trump,” greeted Vladimir, with a neutral tone. It was impossible to tell how the Russian felt about this interruption.

“Vladimir, so good to hear your voice. And I’ve told you, since I admire you so much, and since we’re such good friends, you should call me Donald,” Trump responded, a bit annoyed that Vladimir wouldn’t call him Donald. He just wanted to hear his name uttered by the other man. Was that too much to ask for?

“I’ve told you time and time again, Mr. Trump, I would much rather we be formal,” Putin responded.

“Yes, but there’s no need. I’m calling you privately, no one needs to know that we call each other,” Trump whined, like the big baby he really was.

“So, how are your plans going?” asked Putin, eager to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory.

“Well, I have refused to take the salary during the time that I am president, to show that I’m more like the everyday people. Also to prove that I am richer than them, and always will be, since I can clearly afford to not take the salary. I also finished my lawsuit about Trump University, one of my business ventures. It’s been hard building myself up after the small loan my father gave me was much smaller than I had expected,” Trump rambled on. On the other side of the phone, Putin put his speaker on mute, and allowed the blathering fool to continue speaking. “The Rockettes will be performing at my inauguration, which will be nice, since they are some of the hottest women I have ever seen, other than my wives, and my daughter of course. I can’t believe that KISS rejected me, that was downright rude. My inauguration will be one of the best things that they would’ve ever performed at,” Trump continued.

As Trump was speaking, he set his cellphone to speaker, and his hands slowly began to drift towards his hair. His new haircut had already appeared to be a little too distracting. For others, and for him. Trump simply couldn’t keep his hands away from the allure of his hair. There was something he felt, when he ran his hands through his hair, something that simply wouldn’t let him stop.

Trump was surprised when he heard the knock on his door. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Melania and Barron were back in New York, where he was wasting federal money on keeping them safe.

“Mr. Trump?” questioned a voice, a little fearful. Trump walked over to the door, and opened it. Standing outside was a young man, who looked to be about 27.

“Yes, young man?” asked Trump, who had no clue why he was being summoned.

“Well, I was wondering if we could ask you to tone down the level of your tweets, since they are offensive to many people, and you often contradict yourself in them,” the young man stated.

“Well, first I want to know where my security is. Shouldn’t they be here?” Trump asked, changing the subject.

“Well, your security wanted to give you privacy, you see. They figured that if you were returning to your hotel suite at 2 in the afternoon, you might want some,” the young man, blushed and stammered out. Anyone could tell that the presence of Trump was making him uncomfortable.

“Where are they?” Trump asked, clearly confused.

“They’re still in the hotel sir, they wouldn’t leave. Their contracts legally wouldn’t allow them to leave,” the young man said, slightly more confident, but ever so slightly so.

“So I’m still safe?” Trump asked.

“Yes,” the young man replied. “However,” he thought to himself, “there are many people who would definitely take great pleasure in seeing you dead, and many who wouldn’t be particularly opposed to seeing you dead or incapacitated, so you’re never really safe from all the things that could happen to you.”

You see, the young man’s boyfriend, was Muslim, and he had received a lot of hate, and hate crimes had spiked upwards in the last few weeks, after Trump was declared the President-Elect and Clinton had conceded the race. It was utterly devastating, and the young man wasn’t entirely sure why he was working for Trump, or any Republican, and he wasn’t quite sure how it happened. All he knew was that he needed a job, and the one he had selected payed quite well. If he had actually read the description for the job, he likely wouldn’t’ve signed up, on the grounds that Trump was a racist xenophobe. The job market these days was hard though. It wasn’t necessarily a guarantee because he needed a job, literally any job, and honestly, this one paid pretty well.

“You can leave now, stop disturbing me,” Trump replied, and slammed the door in the young man’s face.

The young man, was a little confused, seeing as he hadn’t actually gotten an answer from Trump, and was supposed to have one. He resolved to wait a few minutes, and knock on the President-Elect’s door again, just to see if he could receive an official statement that he could show to his boss, to show that he had actually tried.

“Excuse me sir?” the man tried again, with a little more hope.

“What is it? I’m busy,” Trump stated.

“Well, you never really answered whether you would tone down your twitter usage or not, and we really would like an answer,” the young man replied.

“No. I have spent a lot of time on my twitter, and many people, lots of people follow me. I am the role model of so many young people. My twitter helped get me elected,” Trump claimed, with a series of rather childlike statements. Of course, seeing as he was an overgrown child himself, it made sense after all. His twitter wasn’t something he was going to give up, seeing that he liked the idea of power, and for some odd reason, having a twitter made him feel powerful.

Trump settled back into his bed, after slamming the door shut yet again. He ran his fingers through his hair once more, a sense of relaxation shrouding him from the rest of his worries. He was so relaxed, he didn’t even feel the compulsion to post something degrading or demeaning on twitter. He wasn’t thinking about anything; his mind was blank. Other than the thoughts of his hair, which he now decided to properly classify as a mullet.

It wasn’t quite at the right length in the back to be a real mullet, but it just barely brushed his shoulders. It was the start of a mullet, and in a few weeks, it would be a proper mullet. Of course, it would look terrible on him, considering he is a Cheeto, and that he doesn’t have much hair at all, but it would be a real mullet. Of sorts.

Trump fell asleep in his suit, his hands in his hair.


	3. Chapter 3

Trump woke up at 11:00 in the morning, oddly satiated. He felt at peace, and wrung out. Almost as if something had happened. Something odd. Not that he cared. Obama only had a few days left of his presidency. He was almost inaugurated to be the president. It was a new milestone for him. A milestone he was eager to reach.

He wasn’t scared of course. He was planning on getting rid of Obamacare, despite the repercussions. It certainly was a good thing that he was such good friends with Putin. Putin called him his _kotik_ and Trump had no idea what that meant. He assumed it meant big, strong, and smart, since that was exactly what he felt he was.

Of course, he was surprised the Republican party wasn’t letting him be open that the Russians did hack the elections. He expected them to let him speak about how America needed to be great again. Of course, Trump was stupid enough to actually believe that the Republicans were fond of him. Tolerated him, sure, but most definitely not fond of him. Mostly, Republicans just didn’t want a democrat in the office.

Trump scrolled through his twitter feed, as he usually did. Trying to find someone to target, or something to say. The backlash he received was never too much, and he always did love the permanence of the internet. He needed to make up some bullshit fact from the top of his head, and use it to tweet something, or say something.

He decided on a tweet about the inauguration. That was a harmless subject. He was getting inaugurated as the 45th president of the United States anyways. He might as well brag about it. He decided to pretend that multiple people wanted to watch his inauguration in person, despite the fact that not many people wanted to in reality. It seemed like a good idea to him, despite the fact that it was most definitely not a good idea.

Trump was feeling rather sad that John Lewis had attacked him, but for revenge, he did talk to Martin Luther King III, Martin Luther King Jr.’s son. Trump decided not to say anything about it, for unknown reasons, but the meeting seemed to have benefitted Trump, oddly enough. It wasn’t something people would’ve expected, oddly enough, considering Trump’s extremely racist, misogynistic, and xenophobic views.

Trump didn’t have anything scheduled for today, other than an interview, and forced revision with Kellyanne about his inaugural speech. Despite Trump winning the election, Conway remained his manager/handler, whatever you wanted to call her. It wasn’t as if Conway was the best person for the job, as there wasn’t much she could do with Trump.

Trump sat through his interview, and his speech, suffering, dying inside a little, as he tried not to think about his luscious hair, which had somehow grown past the length of his feet. It was cleverly hidden in his suit, which he had gotten tailored at roughly two in the morning a few days ago, when he realized his predicament. He wasn’t sure how it worked, but his hair, which had seemed to have developed sentience, looked like a normal length mullet.

All he wanted to do was to go back to his hotel room. It was all he wanted. He just wanted to let his hair tie him up, slide its corn-colored keratin strands through his body. He wanted to feel it, feel it everywhere. He just wanted his hair to stuff him like a turkey, fill him up so he felt nice and tight. He just wanted it all. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to.

It was such a good thing that he was the only one in his hotel room. He undressed himself, with the careful help of his mullet. His mullet was oddly gentle, sliding the buttons through the holes of his dress shirt, allowing him to bask in the peace, and the feel of the dry strands caressing his chest.

His hair had gotten a lot thicker, adding a lot more volume, making it something he desperately wanted to feel inside of himself. His clothes fully gone now, thrown to some random section of his overly large room. His hair glided over him gently, with glancing touches, lightly, feather-soft. So many adjectives that Trump never would’ve used, since he didn’t really know them.

The locks of his hair were reaching for a bottle of lube, something he didn’t realize he needed up until this point, but Trump supposed it made sense. He wouldn’t want the rough strands, scraping and rubbing against his insides without any lubrication.

A large grouping of his hair combined together, with a radius of an inch, poured the lubricant all over itself, creating a tapered tip, reminiscent of a paint-brush. It slowly inched its way into Trump’s asshole, literally inching, going in by almost exact measurements. It was an odd feeling, but Trump wanted more. He didn’t feel full, all he wanted was more.

He needed to call his hair something. He decided on simply calling it ‘Mullet’.

“Mullet!” he cried, “give me more. I want more,” he whined. His hair complied with his instructions, dipping more of itself into the lubricant and pushing its way in with the hair already present. His orange skin blended in almost seamlessly with the color of his hair.

Although, his hair was sentient. He couldn’t exactly in good conscience, call it a part of himself. It certainly did bring him closer to orgasm than his small hands ever could’ve done. He supposed what he was doing was essentially glorified masturbation, although thinking about it like that takes a level of self-awareness Donald Trump hadn’t reached, and most likely never would reach.

He naturally assumed it was its own entity, although his subconscious was begging for him to be tied down and dominated, something expressed through his hair. His hair did have a level of independent thought, but in the end, it was a part of him.

“Mullet, give it to me the way I always wanted Vladimir to give it to me,” he begged. He had often fantasized about the Russian man, something he would never admit to.

“Donald?” he heard a voice saying, with a vague Russian accent. He couldn’t be too sure, seeing that he was in the throes of passion.

“Ye-es?” he stuttered out.

“It’s Putin. Why did you call me?”

“I didn’t,” Trump moaned, seeing as he was in the middle of having sex with himself.

“You seem,” Putin trailed off, “occupied,” he finished. “I’m going to call you back later.”

“Yes, that sounds great,” Trump said. He promptly screamed as the sensation of being stuffed like a hand into a latex glove coupled with the hair stroking itself along his dick was too much.

He hoped his wonderful Vlad hadn’t heard, as that would be moderately to severely embarrassing.


End file.
